


Found You Once More

by LightDarkPheonix



Series: Sherlock 1000k+ ficlets [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightDarkPheonix/pseuds/LightDarkPheonix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes disappeared three years ago. Six months ago, Sherlock was thrown out onto the streets of London by his drunken father, not a cent to his name. </p><p> </p><p>  <b>Warning: There is vaguely referenced female-on-male "corrective" rape. It is portrayed as a deeply traumatizing thing to a male character who feels deep guilt over a)his homosexuality b)his romantic feeling for his younger brother. There is also incest that is 100% consensual, but if that squicks you out, this is your warning.<b></b></b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Found You Once More

Mycroft’s eyes opened as he sensed someone standing above him. After a few years living on the streets, he’d developed almost a sixth sense about people in his space. To oversimplify matters, there were three types of people who he interacted with on a daily basis: the first were truly good people who would buy him a coffee or some food, the second were probably good people, but were suspicious of homeless people as a rule, and the third, larger group was other homeless people. These came in all flavors, from perfectly nice but just trying to stay alive to the downright nasty. He’d lost his last spot to one of those types, who’d wanted money that Mycroft didn’t have. 

Other than his eyes opening, he kept himself still, curled up underneath the blanket he was using to shelter against the night. 

“My?” he heard. Startled, he shifted to a sitting position. 

Sherlock sucked in a breath when he saw the state Mycroft was in. His brother had lost nearly all excess weight, and the skin of his face was stretched tightly over his skull. His eyes were sunken, their normal pale grey even duller, and they had a hollow look that didn’t match with the image he had of the man. 

He had not seen Mycroft for three years, ever since he had disappeared one day, in the middle of his (annoying infrequent) visits home. 

Six months ago his father, in a drunken rage, had told him everything. Mycroft loved him, loved him as a boyfriend or a husband would, not as a brother would. Their father had given him three choices: being sent to an ex-gay therapy camp, being chemically castrated (“he’s a freak, they should all be neutered,” he had muttered, his face close to Sherlock’s, he was also physical when angry) or being sent away completely, cut off from his money. 

What he hadn’t explained was why living on the streets of London was preferable to the other two, considering it meant he had probably been driven into the city for the one and only purpose of being abandoned there. Mycroft, now twenty-seven, had been twenty-four at the time he left, already an adult with a fairly decent fortune under his belt. 

Sherlock, feeding off his father’s anger, had responded that the reason he hated him so much for making Mycroft go away was that he felt the same way towards his brother as he did towards Sherlock. The drunken bastard had thrown Sherlock almost literally out of the house, and so here he was. He’d made his way to London, reasoning that being homeless with almost no money would probably be at least a bit easier in the city than in the countryside around Holmes manor. 

“My?” he asked again. Mycroft blinked, a slow sluggish motion. He mumbled something, and tugged his blanket tighter around him. “My,” he said against, insistently now. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

His brother shrugged his thin shoulders. “I’ve had a bad week. What are you doing here?” his demeanor shifted suddenly, and there was now panic in his eyes. “Father said you’d be safe, he said you’d be okay if I punished myself. As soon as my feelings are gone I can come back, and he won’t hurt you if I do,” he got up, and pressed himself against the wall of the alley where they were. “Don’t touch me,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet, “Don’t touch me, I’m dirty, I love you in all the wrong ways,” he added, and Sherlock felt genuine fear. What had happened to his brother in the three years he was away?

“Mycroft, I love you in the same way, how could you ever not figure that out?” he knelt by his brother, the pieces clicking into place. “What do you mean, punish yourself?”

His brother laughed, high and bitter, the manic edge still in his eyes. “Do you think I enjoy living like this?” he asked, gesturing to himself. “I’m lucky if I get food once a day, usually I go a couple of days. I live off what I can steal and the kindness of strangers, the money I managed to bring with me was stolen or used up ages ago, and this is the first time in a year and a half I’ve managed to keep a spot for more than a month. So, unnamed fantastic actor sent to me by my father to torment me, unless you’re actually Sherlock, please go away.”

Sherlock crouched down by Mycroft, and said, “I’m not an actor. I’ve been living in a similar way you have for the past six months, and I guess we can blame how huge London is that we haven’t met up before.”

The older brother looked over the young man who looked like Sherlock. He did show signs of living on the street. His clothes, while high end and of good quality, were showing the signs of constant wear and tear. Six months or so of wear and tear. 

Mycroft still didn’t trust him, though the odds were getting higher that he was in fact Sherlock. This wouldn’t be the first time his father had sent people to him to “punish” him farther for the sins of being homosexual and in love with his brother. To his father, the first was the greater sin... Mycroft shuddered slightly as he remembered the woman father had sent to “correct” his lack of desire for women. 

Sherlock noticed the shudder and reached out to touch Mycroft’s shoulder gently. His brother flinched, pulling back slightly. “What was the name of our first pet?” he asked suddenly, asking a question that both a fake Sherlock and the real Sherlock would know the answer to, thought real Sherlock would give a different answer. 

“The first pet we named together was a bee who I trapped in a jar when I was eight years old. We kept him for a day, I named him Bee. I wasn’t a very original eight year old,” he said, cracking a small smile. 

Mycroft’s demeanor shifted again, and suddenly he grabbed Sherlock by the hand and pulled him down next to him. He grabbed him in a tight hug. “It’s you, it’s you,” he said into his brother’s shoulder, and Sherlock quickly reciprocated the hug. 

“Yes, it’s me. I love you, My,” he said quietly. 


End file.
